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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 59
“I see you’ve managed to make a barrel on your own,” he
replied.

“Yes, I have,” I replied, and smiled proudly.
“And how fared you handling my daughter?” He asked in the
same light tones ― yet he stopped hitting his hammer as he
spoke and waited for an answer.
“I fared well handling her,” I said, and smiled, then blushed,
apprehending what I had just said and quickly correcting
myself. “I mean, Master, she fared well and gave me no trouble,
Master,” I quickly added, glowing a shade too red.
“Is that so?” He asked, and raised his brow.

“Yes, she only requested my assistance in combing her hair
and other such menial tasks,” I quickly answered.
“I see. Very well, then,” he replied, and resumed his
hammering, satisfied for the moment. Yet fear came to nest in
my heart once again, fear that our love would be discovered
and the happiness I knew would be over. Ever since the day I
had combed her hair I was in heaven and held no other thought

or desire in my heart, save that of marrying Ingrid someday. In
my mind, I saw myself telling Ivar of my humble request, and
imagined that he would slap my shoulder, smiling.
“Of course, Adam, your love is true, and I trust you will take
great care of my daughter,” he would say. Then I would take her
in my arms and kiss her. When he would grow old and retire,
I would take over his trade and provide for him and my wife
and all of our sons and daughters. We would all be one happy
family. In a bold, unthinking moment my mouth opened of its

own accord, fueled by my hopes and dreams.
“Master,” I began, taking a deep breath.
“Yes, Adam,” he replied, and paused his hammering again. I
took a moment to steady myself.